


Ebb & Flow

by sistasarahsallysaidso



Category: Mayans M.C. (TV)
Genre: A Proliferation of Commas, Artist AU, Artist!Angel, F/M, POV Alternating, a few curse words, lots of introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27762397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistasarahsallysaidso/pseuds/sistasarahsallysaidso
Summary: After sticking his foot in his mouth, Artist!Angel realizes he has to make it right or lose the opportunity to get to know someone who could turn out to be the woman of his dreams.
Relationships: Angel Reyes & Reader
Kudos: 2





	Ebb & Flow

You were standing as out of the way as you could manage within the small gallery, keeping out of the flow of patrons and guests. Holding a flute of something bubbly, you let your eyes skim over the brightly lit space, splashes of color capturing your attention again and again; colorful people, colorful art, too much to let your eye rest anywhere.

When the air conditioning kicked on again, a full body shiver worked its way down, making you wish for the umpteenth time that evening that you were home in your softest lounge pants and tee, wrapped up in that sweater you had that felt just like a blanket and kept you as warm. But no. Your best friend, Sam, was co-curating at this new gallery and needed artist work to display in this We Exist, Please Patronize Us show. Of course you genuinely wanted them to succeed so when they called and said that the latest pieces you were working on would be perfect for the show, and could they please borrow them, even if they weren’t for sale, and on and on until you ran out of excuses, you gave in to them, almost convinced the work was good enough to show.

You’d deliberately avoided even passing by the area where your work was displayed, not wanting to hear or see any kind of reaction to the trio of pieces. When you created, it was for yourself alone. Sometimes it was a reaction to another artist’s work, mostly music. Sometimes it was a pushing need to express something brought up from the world around you, like bold, clear feeling of righteous anger due to social injustice or the bright and pure beauty of a kind gesture. And sometimes still it was merely an idea that popped into your brain and you wanted to see if your hands were up to the task. These particular works on display were the aftermath of a documentary you’d watched on the Stonewall Riots, when you had so many emotions swirling inside you’d had to begin designing for those pieces or you’d been sure you would explode all over your small apartment. A glob of sadness would have run down the wall above your bed. A puddle of frustration would have gathered at ground zero on the sofa. An arc of awe would have splattered across the living room wall and window. You’d had to create to avoid the messy aftermath of ignoring those emotions.

But once you express with art, those emotions and intentions and statements exist outside of you, and the messy understanding with which they were created doesn’t survive the transition. The meaning in them, their weight, their purpose become mutable and shifting, altering to fit the viewer, the audience, the listener, the collector, their value reduced from the intrinsic to the perceived. And even though you were well aware of the fact that different artistic styles appealed to different types of people and was no reflection on the artist, you couldn’t help but feel a little like a failure each time the value you had assigned a piece was overlooked and reassigned by someone else; like they would have gleaned what you meant had you done a better job in execution. No matter how many times your best friend, an artist themselves, told you there was objective value to your work, it never sat right to put it on display. It had taken so much time to make yourself okay with being vulnerable and honest with yourself. To make yourself so for and in front of strangers was a different journey, a path you didn’t care to walk yet. Putting your work on display for public consumption was too painful for you to observe.

Thanks to your inability to say no to them, though, you were standing in your anxiety, doing your best to think of comforting things like the lightness of sushi and seeing pictures of your niece and warm drinks on a cold day and spending uninterrupted time in creation. You’d just about decided to seek out Sam and make your excuses when you picked up a figure nearing in your periphery. You scooted to the side as much as you could, assuming they needed to pass by, but the figure stopped directly beside you instead.

You looked up into the softest, sweetest dark brown eyes you’d ever seen set under a straight and equally dark brow. They held slight crinkles at the corners; evidence of good humor, you thought. Or he works outside. Whatever.

“Hello.”

“Hi.”

You knew you were staring with an awkward quasi-smile on your face, but your mind was racing and it’s all you could muster. He looked so familiar… And there was no way you couldn’t have noticed that adorable mouth seeing as it was perfectly framed by a thick beard. That it was not-so-neatly-trimmed made you like it better, since you were rarely perfectly put together yourself. _Oh GOD_ , you were staring at his mouth now.

“I noticed you standing here by yourself, looking a bit like you wish you were anywhere else, and I felt like there could be a story here. If you feel like sharing.”

He looked at you expectantly, and you suddenly felt a little silly. This tall, dark, handsome stranger is offering up relief from your boredom. _Pull yourself together._

“It’s just, the air conditioner keeps blowing right on me, and every time it kicks on I wish I was back home in a sweater. Otherwise, I’m fine!” The biggest Customer Service smile you could call forth appeared on your face, quickly warming into a genuine one when he responded in kind.

“I see. Have you considered…moving to another place? Somewhere the air conditioner can’t blow directly on you?”

He was teasing you. You…liked it. It wasn’t condescending, it was inviting. _What is happening?_

“Ah, yes. Well, I did consider that, yes, but I was trying to stay out of everyone’s way, and I didn’t want to accidentally come across my work.”

His tall self got even taller as his posture straightened and his eyes widened, making you realize belatedly that he’d been hunching down to be closer to you. The thought of this focused attention began to warm your face before you remembered what you’d just let slip.

“You’re showing here? You’re an artist, too?”

“Yeah, yes. Wait, ‘too?’ You’re an artist? Are you showing here, as well?”

Somehow his smile got even bigger as he gestured broadly saying, “Yeah, yeah, I am! Which pieces are yours? I wanna see!”

Oh, no. No, nononononono. In no way did you want to see him—Angel Reyes! You _knew_ you recognized him!—interact with your work. He’s an artist in his own right and his work looks nothing like yours. And as attractive as he was in photos that you’d seen, he was even more so in person where his attention and charm were felt at full blast. If he saw your work, the pieces that seemed nearly forced out of you, at best he’d spout platitudes and generic enjoyment. At worst, he’d gloss over it and change the subject completely, politely saying nothing since he had nothing nice to say…

“Uh… I have a better idea.” Moving your glass over to one hand, you threaded your free hand through Angel’s arm closest to you. “Why don’t we walk around and guess at which works are each other's?”

You knew his name, and he didn’t know yours. You knew you could find his pieces and if you happened across yours and he didn’t seem complimentary, you could always lie and say they weren’t yours. Maybe yours weren’t put out after all, or maybe this was a horrible idea. Yeah. Probably this was a horrible idea and you should let go of the man and go find Sam…

“Well, I don’t think my wife would be happy about that.”

What the- _He was married?!_ The surprised look on your face must have been comical, but it was quickly followed by shame. Shame at your suggestion you should spend time together, but mostly shame at your covetous, assumptive thoughts, innocent as they may have been.

“Oh! I’m- I didn’t know! I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s—”

“I didn’t—I wouldn’t have—I—shouldn’t—I’m gonna go.”

You turned and left him staring after you with a placating hand out. God, how embarrassing. _Of course_ he was married. What was wrong with you? How lonely were you that ten minutes of undivided attention from an attractive stranger had you feeling like he could be The One? Clearly, you were not ready to be amongst people. You were going home, ordering sushi, and pointedly ignoring any calls from Sam. Ever.

Looking for a place to set down your half-full glass of bubbles, you ran into Sam.

“Oh, there you are! I saw you talking to Angel.”

How they could say a name and make you feel like you were in grade school again was beyond you, but they were accomplished at it.

“Yeah. Look, Sam, I’m not really feeling this anymore. I’m gonna head home. Thanks for inviting me; the gallery looks great! Just bring my work back to me whenever you’re done with it.”

“ _Whoa_ whoa whoa whoa…hold up. What’s wrong, why are you sprinting? Did Angel do something?”

“What? No! Of course not.” It took everything in your whole being to continue looking at Sam and not turn to glance at the man in question.

“Well, good. ‘Cause I think you guys looked cute together.” They completely ignored your exasperated look. “I think you should stay so you can talk some more.”

“I don’t think his wife would like that.”

The look of utter confusion on their face was a slight balm to the fuzz of embarrassment still filling up your brain.

“Angel’s not married.”

“Well, he said he is, and I feel like he would know.”

“That’s not… He’s not, though.”

“Okay, then maybe he was just trying to get out of spending any more time with me without being rude about it. Even a polite no is a no, Sam.” You sighed, tired of thinking about this out loud. “I’m going home. Thank you for getting me out of the apartment for a bit. You’re the best.”

You kissed their cheek and handed them the drink before pushing through the door and starting the walk back to your place. It was a decent distance, but the day had been so beautiful and walking over had seemed like a great idea at the time. Now, of course, it meant an unreal amount of time with nothing but your own thoughts running circles until you could be home where you could surround yourself in comfort and kindness. At least that sushi place was on the way, if you diverted a block and a half. No need to wait for delivery.  
__________

“Angel, what just happened?”

“Dude! I don’t know. I was just talking to this pretty woman and she was flirting, and she wrapped her hand around my arm, right? And it’s like it just switched off the connection between my mind and my mouth, and I told her I was married.”

Sam was cool. He hadn’t known them before being introduced by his brother, Ezekiel, who worked with them at this gallery, but he’d gotten to know them when EZ brought them over to look at his pieces and select which would be best to fit the show. They were acerbic and witty and, underneath the near constant ribbing, very caring. Not the type of folks you always ran across in LA. In the art scene there were a lot of people who projected authenticity and genuine empathy, but most of it was surface-level only. Sam seemed to be a real one, though.

“I… Why would you do that? That was the girl I was telling you about. My friend from back home?”

“Wait. That was your friend? Stonewall Girl?” At Sam’s nod, all he could think was that he’d really blown it. “Shit.”

“Yyyyeaaahhhh.”

He’d helped EZ and Sam bring over his pieces for the show, and he’d gotten to look around before the show opened while the others were setting up. He’d literally stopped in his tracks when he’d seen those pieces, the three grouped together near the back. EZ had been walking him around, and when he’d asked who’s works they were he’d called over Sam. They’d told him the story behind those pieces and he’d asked immediately if he could buy them, but Sam said the artist hadn’t wanted them sold. He’d pushed a bit and Sam admitted they were painted by a friend from their hometown and Angel hadn’t been able to resist encouraging them to share everything that popped into their mind, and man, had they shared. It was clear Sam held her in high regard and that she didn’t consider herself an artist. Angel could relate, in a way. He was driven to create, to make, to consider himself and his place in the world, but even with his recent moderate success still was hard-pressed to call himself an artist and mean it.

By the time Sam had wrapped up and realized they had work to do to get the gallery ready, Angel was half in love with this mystery artist. Sam had promised she was coming to the opening, and Angel’d been walking between his pieces and hers all night, hoping to be able to meet her and talk for a while about those pieces and her process, if she was willing. He loved to know why an artist was moved to create, what was in their brains, their hearts, what their intention was when they began their process, and if they still felt that way about the finished product. But everyone he saw in the back when he went by seemed to be moving through, no one claiming ownership. He figured he’d just missed her and she might have been moving around like he was, trying to see everyone else’s work.

But then he’d seen the pretty woman with the far-off look in her eyes. She was present, but she’d seemed like someone standing on the periphery, or an audience member watching a play, there but not. He was big enough to admit to himself that he also approached her because she was attractive. She’d been lovely in a quiet way from across the room, but when she turned those beautiful eyes up to him, he’d not seen an ounce of artifice in them. No recognition, either, which let him breathe a little more deeply. If she didn’t know who he was, he knew there’d be no preconceived notions he had to contend with.

She’d smiled up at him and he couldn’t hear for a moment. He could feel his face responding, and he was slightly alarmed that he looked like an idiot, but he also couldn’t care enough to change it. She’d told him she was an artist here, and his heart damn near skipped a beat. Maybe it was her, he’d thought. He’d asked which works were hers with only a tiny bit of longing that the artist whose work had engrossed him and the pretty lady with the wistful eyes and stunning smile would be one and the same. He was wholly unprepared for her to step into him and wrap her hand around his arm, suggesting they walk around together, spending time in each other’s company while looking at all of the art.

He’d wanted to say something funny, something that would put him back on an even keel, something to make her laugh and flirt back. Therefore, he’d been horrified to hear those words come out of his own mouth.

“Well, I don’t think my wife would be happy about that.”

 _What the_ fuck<>em, Angel?! In his jumbled brain, this was the start of a joke where she responded with something and he was able to infer that she was his wife, but even in retrospect that was just as ridiculous as what he’d actually said, and he was immensely glad he hadn’t gotten to say anything of the sort. It only would have been funny if she actually _were_ his wife, so he didn’t know where he was going with that or why it would have popped into his head to begin with.

“Sam… What do I do? I really want to talk to her.”

Sam looked at him for a moment, and it felt to Angel like they were looking through him, into his soul, to determine whether or not he was worthy of such lengths required of them.

“Okay. Let’s finish up here, and then you and I can bring her art back to her at her apartment. You can say whatever you want to say and I can leave if you hit it off, or provide a good excuse to leave if you don’t.”

Angel nodded, happy to get everything straightened out that same night.

“But listen, Reyes. She’s important to me. She’s a good person. I’m only doing this because from what your brother tells me of you and what I know of her, I genuinely think the two of you would be good together, and I want that to have a fair shot.”

He’d never seen them look so intense, but he got it. He’d embarrassed their friend and made her uncomfortable, like she’d done something wrong, when it was him who’d been the idiot. He’d make it right. He nodded at Sam and went back to the area with his art to shake hands and answer questions and think about how he was going to extract his foot from his mouth next time he saw her.  
__________

You knew Sam was on their way with your pieces from the show, though why they thought the trio needed to come back to you tonight was beyond your thought processes. Your text exchange hadn’t been helpful.

 **Sammie Pie:** hey put on clothes we’re coming over with your art you wont let us sell

 **You:** tonight??

 **Sammie Pie:** now

 **You:** can’t it wait, Sammie? i’m already ready for bed…

 **Sammie:** no

 **Sammie:** be there in 20

It hadn’t made any sense to you, but whatever. They’d seen you looking much worse than clean-faced and draped in the lounge pants and sweater you’d been day-dreaming about at the opening. You did clean up the trash from your sushi take out, though. You almost prepped the coffee maker for their preferred decaf brew, but the texts had been so abrupt you figured they may not be in the mood to stick around and shoot the shit like they normally did. Then again, maybe they couldn’t wait to bring you the artwork because they had some good goss to deliver… Shrugging, you prepped the grounds and water, but didn’t press the button. It wouldn’t take long to brew if they wanted to stay after all.

Fifteen minutes later you were still flipping through Netflix when the buzzer for the front door sounded. You let them in and then waited with the door open to see what kind of mood your friend was in this evening. The elevator dinged and opened its doors and you saw Sam step out with a piece of art in each hand. Following right behind them by Angel _freakin’_ Reyes. Your breath seized and frantically looked down at yourself, thinking of what you looked like before realizing there was nothing you could do about it and this was just happening. You looked up again right into the resigned and somewhat sheepish face of your used-to-be-friend. They knew. They freakin’ _knew_.  
__________

Angel watched her face cycle through a few emotions and reactions, simultaneously hating that he was the cause of the obvious panic and loving to watch her. Sam had asked to let them take the lead, so he waited while they dealt with the sudden flash of sheer fury in her eyes when she looked up from her clear assessment of her outfit. He didn’t know why she was mad about how she looked, though. She looked warm and comfy and ready to curl up in bed, and he had to swallow around his suddenly dry throat. _Don’t get ahead of yourself, Reyes_ , he reminded himself.

“Here’s your art,” Sam said, thrusting her pieces at her and causing her to back up enough to allow them entry while she took them. “And here’s Angel. He feels like your discussion was cut short.”

Sam took the third piece that Angel had been carrying and threw him a look that basically screamed MAKE THIS RIGHT, then passed by her to move into the apartment. Angel stepped into the doorway, but no further. He was already making her uncomfortable. He didn’t want to intrude any further into her space without an invitation, just in case she told him to take a hike.

“Uh…yeah,” he sighed out. “I wanted to apologize. I’m not married. I don’t know why I said that, to be honest. I think it was the beginning of some sort of joke that was…not very funny.”

Angel could feel his neck getting hot, knew it was turning red and that the redness would steadily creep further up his neck to his face the longer it went on. He didn’t really understand why what this woman thought of him was important to him, but he chose not to fight the feeling. She looked confused, but more in control of herself. And still so quietly pretty. He forced himself to hold eye contact.

“Do you want to come in?”  
__________

You stepped out of the entry, hyper aware of the man at your back, to see Sam had already placed the piece they’d taken from Angel onto the top of your kitchen bar top. They took the ones you were carrying and added them to the set and all three of you stood there looking at them. You felt like you should say something, but every one of your senses was attuned to the presence at your back. His embarrassment was radiating from him, but it was tempered by the courage and resolution it must have taken to come over to see you again in person.

A part of you wanted to hide from all of that potential, to go back to existing on your own, each day more or less blending into the other. But another part of you—louder every day—was clamoring for company. A partner. Someone to travel with, and laugh with, and complain to, and comfort, and cook for, and make love with. Someone who would support your art and at least try to understand when your emotions could only be communicated through it.

Sam had told you a lot about Angel; some stuff you wish they hadn’t. Some stuff you felt a little wrong knowing when he hadn’t been the one to tell you. But that couldn’t be helped, really. You liked what you knew of him just from your interactions today. Up until the weird joke—and your dramatic reaction to it—he’d been charming and cute and confident without being oily about it. He’d made you comfortable in even that small amount of time, which wasn’t an easy feat. You liked that he’d come over to apologize in person. It shouldn’t have been an issue for him to write off your failed exchange and put it out of his mind, but that he was affected by it showed he was an empathetic man. That he felt driven to make sure you were okay, too, indicated he was caring and kind-hearted. That he did it even when it made him demonstrably uncomfortable meant he was brave and had a strong sense of justice. All good things. You didn’t want to keep him in suspense any longer, just because you were uncomfortable, too. If he could be brave about it, so could you.

“Look, Mr. Reyes. The joke…wasn’t great,” you laughed, “but my reaction was a little much, too, and I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable because of it. I could have laughed it off, but it struck a chord with me, and I may have overreacted. For that I apologize.”

Angel’s brow was furrowed, still standing close enough that he had to look down to maintain eye contact. He briefly glanced over to Sam, but returned to searching all over your reddening face to shake his head at you.

“If I’m embarrassed now, it’s only because I made _you_ uncomfortable. You have no reason to apologize, I promise.”

You stood there looking into his soft and dark eyes, so sure you would willingly suffocate in the sweetness warming the air between you. A barely audible _thank you_ escaped your lips, taking its time floating to him on the undercurrents of a light stirring of affection. The smallest nod was his only reaction to receiving it. It was the strangest thing... There was no tension, no invisible hand pushing you towards him, no connecting string of fate pulling you together--nothing so active--but rather, a comfort in the closeness. How long you could have stayed in just such a pose you didn’t know. You suspected for eternity.

A loud and abrupt “Well!” from Sam interrupted the moment, making you blink and remember there was another person in the room.

“You two can stay here and argue about who should apologize and who shouldn’t, but I’m beat, and I’m going.”

A swift rise of affection for your friend engulfed you and you put all of it into your heartfelt, “Thank you, Sammie. For everything.”

You hoped they understood the thanks weren’t just for carting your artwork back to you, but also and mostly for dragging you out of your comfort zone of rituals and isolation so you could grow, and even flourish.

They seemed to read into your tone. Their tired eyes softened and reached over to grab your hand and squeeze it. 

“Not much I wouldn’t for you, doll face.”

You squeezed their hand back and let them go so they could continue moving towards your door, footsteps dragging slightly and definitely looking like their day had been long and draining. Which it had been.

“Are you coming, Angel?”

You turned back to him and he looked to you.

“You’re welcome to stay a while, if you’d like.”

You weren’t sure where that came from, but once out in the air, it felt right. No embarrassment followed, no hesitation or uncertainty.

He took a step towards Sam and the door, but rocked back in your direction, like he was torn. There was another apology in his voice when he said to you, “It’s late. I need to get going.”

You merely nodded. You knew it was late. You were tired, too. A smile and a quick nod were all you could give in return.

“But… Could I give you my number?” He stood straight and strong, despite the hour. No more hesitation to be seen. “I’d like to see you again, if you’re okay with that.”

“I’d like that, Mr. Reyes. Thank you.”

“Angel. Call me Angel.”

“Okay….Angel.”

You unlocked your phone and handed it to him, looking over his shoulder at Sam while he entered his info and texted himself.

Sammie’s giant two-thumbs-up and exaggerated, fully open-mouthed smile prompted a wash of heat across your neck and face, and you couldn’t help but shake your head at their ridiculousness, even more grateful for them than before.

Angel handed back your phone and you walked him to the door. Sammie opened it for Angel and then gave you a quick hug before following him into the hallway. You stayed at the open door, leaned against the frame, watching them argue over something about his art while they waited for the elevator to arrive again.

They stepped in and turned as one to face front, leaving Angel just in your line of sight while the doors closed. Your smile matched his and you had to take a deep breath to ease the tightness that last connection had created.

As you closed your door, slowly going through the motions of locking up for the night, your thoughts turned to this new beginning. Beginning of what, you weren’t sure yet. You walked through the small space towards your bedroom lost in thought, wondering if you could bottle up this feeling of excited potential and keep it with you forever. You wrote some key words down in your bedside notebook so you could get up in the morning and start on some new pieces; a habit you’d developed to help you remember how you felt when you didn’t have the energy to create as your muse began whispering. 

A buzz lit up your phone and a quick glance showed Angel’s name with a short message telling you good night. You responded, wishing him sweet dreams and telling him you’d talk soon.

Finally ready for bed, you laid in the dark, drifting on the heady fumes of happiness, certain that the prompts you’d written as reminders of this feeling wouldn’t be necessary.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not gonna lie to you folks - I originally wrote this as a Clayton Cardenas story, but then got squicked out by the RPF thing and changed it to be a character of his. So while Angel is Sensitive (tm), I feel like this is a bit out of character for him. So I apologize for that! I hope you can look past it, though, since it's really a story about the reader (you!) taking a chance. :) Thank you for reading!
> 
> Also - I'm sorry there isn't more here about the club members! Since I didn't write it with Angel in mind, I didn't have anywhere for them to be... Maybe next time.


End file.
